﻿‘It’s always been this way – everyone always heaps on the most powerful country.’ – Bored.
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‘Is your accent Canadian? I always guess Canadian, you know, because people get offended if you call them American.’ – Glad to hear you think of my father's nationality as an insult. I’m here for you.

‘Oh, of course you like guns, you’re American.’ – Nope. Also, bored.

‘Halloween is just so American.’ – Bored. And now eating chocolate while talking to you.

‘American privilege is when …’ / ‘American TV is …’ / ‘American food is …’ - bored, bored, judging you and oh so bored. Can we please talk about something (anything) else?

wake me when it's over

﻿Who wouldn't love being the customer service department for America?

Of course, all this is not to say that I am bored by America itself – on the contrary, watching Stephen Colbert take the mickey out of Donald Trump is one of my favourite hobbies. No, I am bored by what my fellow Australians are telling me about America. Here’s why.

1. It starts when someone cunningly notices that (gasp) I have an accent. Well spotted.

2. Something then occurs in the mind of the other person, something private, and therefore something I cannot explain, but which to me looks roughly like this:

﻿All I can tell you is that afterward, they begin to tell me things about the place where they gather the accent is from. Somewhere behind that cog, one neuron got together with some other neurons and decided that this was a solid course of action.

3. The person opines to me at length, as though I am the customer service department for America … but less interactive. I am not expected to engage or respond. Perhaps I am more like the Suggestions box.
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4. These opinions are never, ever, ever, new or interesting.

5. Having thusly deposited their opinion, the person gives me an awkward, sheepish look, which is usually dispelled if I choose to express a similar belief about America or Americans, preferably while laughing. I am therefore placed in the awkward position of reflecting back those same, tired old opinions, which surely by now have been passed around more than herpes at a house party.
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home?

Of course, this interaction could be very different, if, say, the other person wanted to ask me what it’s like to have a flickering Amer/alian identity; to grow up loving Vegemite but not being able to buy it anywhere; to grow up surrounded by beautiful Appalachian forest, but also aware of a drier, redder place on the other end of the long-distance phone lines. Or about what it was like to have an Australian mother speak wistfully about Australian children, and to feel tainted by my Americanness in her eyes [1].

But in reality, my conversations about nationality go rather differently - and I think it implies something worrisome about our culture here in Australia.
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quasi Aussie

When I first moved to Australia, I found that parts of myself ‘fit’ better here than they did in the US: a cheeky sense of humour; a tendency to be self-deprecating; a sense of irreverence around authority, and around taboos like curse words. All of these parts of me were more accepted here [2].

But other parts of me weren't so acceptable. At first, I downplayed my Americanness as much as possible. I disavowed my fellow Americans, joined in on the general anti-American sentiment that followed Bush’s invasion of Iraq, and longed desperately to lose my obvious accent.

As my cultural identity changed, but my accent did not, I was faced by laughing friends telling me, 'Sorry Ash, but you're not Australian.'

But as the years wore on, I began to feel tired of the refrain. Americans are the source of consumerism. They are fat, they are lazy, they like George Bush and guns. American food is the source of all packaged food, convenience food and fast food. Americans are loud and brash and use too much electricity. Frankly, it started to feel more than a little insulting.

The problem was compounded because my membership card to Australia seemed to have been lost in the mail. I could go a week, maybe two, forgetting about my other-ness before someone would remark on my accent while trashing American politics, American tourists, or the growing 'American' trend of Halloween. Of course, if no one had remarked on my accent, I might not have noticed the exchange, but tied in to their discourse was that reminder: “you’re one of them.” Oh yeah. I forgot.

Even after five, then ten years, as my American cultural identity faded but my accent did not, I was still reminded by laughing mates: “I’m sorry Ash, but you’re not Australian.”

Unfortunately, it only took about five years for my American club membership to expire – when I visited the US in 2010 I was fondly referred to as 'Aussie Ashley', because apparently I have an accent to them, now, as well.

Living as a dual citizen, then, has been a bit of a mixed blessing: I’ve been both and neither. I have two passports, but nowhere I belong. I am excluded both at home and abroad. And I’m not really sure which is which anymore.​​​

home?

danger, Will Robinson

I think there’s something dangerous happening here. If we exclude others from membership to 'the Australian club' or 'the American club' based on a more complex identity or an accent, we’re excluding a heck of a lot of people.

If my citizenship is not enough to make me Australian, then neither is the citizenship of the thousands of new Australians recognised at Australia Day ceremonies.

If my heritage is not enough to make me Australian, then how can we hope to integrate Australians whose parents were migrants – or refugees who fled here to escape WWII or Vietnam? If I am too much of an outsider, then what about the children of Sudanese refugees? What chance do they have?

And if living here is not enough to make me Australian, then neither is the residency of those new Australian citizens over their lifespan. Accent = Other. I even have it relatively easy, because I don’t have any of the other ‘unacceptable’ things, like a second primary language, or dark skin, like almond-shaped eyes, or a hijab. For some Australians, I imagine that those traits are treated like disqualifiers as well. The idea of an Australian becomes very narrow, and very white.
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not just a river in Egypt

It also felt like the people around me were projecting: as long as the vices of affluence were 'American', not 'Australian', it was fine if they wanted to buy another new car, or get Macca’s at the drive-through. And though America had a problem with racism and xenophobia, the Howard-era immigration policies were something we could be proud of at the time – because xenophobia was not an Australian problem.

The shame I had been taught about being American in my childhood was being echoed in adulthood, and by people who didn’t seem so much interested in the reality of the culture as the idea of the country as a fast-food nation. These were not people interested in nuance: they had the conception of America they wanted.
​It’s a bit of a shame, really. I consider myself to be Australian (and I'm proud of that), and to my way of thinking, if we want to speak out against racism, xenophobia, Islamophobia, or all-you-can-eat consumerism – there’s plenty of it to address right here at home.

unfortunately, all these discussions are too complex for polite society

… as are discussions about the impacts of colonialism and a belief in Manifest Destiny, about the ongoing impacts of slavery and Jim Crow laws, about economic policy, foreign policy, or how the hell Legally Blonde ended up on Broadway.

So I smile, and I nod, and I pretend I’m interested in someone’s unsolicited opinion.

Thank you for your feedback. I’ll be sure to bring it up at the next Annual General Meeting.
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yeah kid, don't worry. I'm not certain about it, either.

[1] Heck, it would be different if the other person wanted to discuss gerrymandering, or the Red Sox, or problematic racial divides, or health care, or why American coffee shops have those inexplicable little swizzle sticks – virtually anything. But nope. I get Bush, Iraq, obesity, Republicans, TV and Donald Trump on repeat. Yayyyy….